


Feeling Very Sick And Ill Today

by this_charman



Category: Morrissey (Musician), The Smiths
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Trapped In Elevator, mike and andy are barely in it haha, morrissey has a cold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5545778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_charman/pseuds/this_charman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny can't understand why Morrissey is being such a snappish, crotchety little egg this morning, and his unwillingness to communicate certainly doesn't help. However, when their elevator gets stuck on it's way to their hotel's lobby, the singer may not have a choice.<br/>***author's note: just fun lil factoroonie but the word count is the same year james dean died hahahaa</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeling Very Sick And Ill Today

**Author's Note:**

> aaa i'm such trash i'm sorry

The elevator’s shrill ring chimes throughout the quiet hall.

Both men pause for several moments, until the taller of the two finally releases a huff of exasperation and proceeds into the cramped metal box, heaving his suitcase violently behind him. 

Johnny rolls his eyes, and, grabbing his small black duffel, enters the elevator in a much quieter fashion than his friend. 

The doors close before them slowly, and with the lurching of the floor beneath them, Johnny and Moz are on their way towards the lobby of the shabby motel the band has been staying at for the past several nights. The air hangs heavily above the two men, and as time ticks on, Johnny curses to himself silently that he didn’t just take the stairs—which, albeit more strenuous, would be significantly less uncomfortable than his current position. 

The elevator truly is quite sluggish, but Johnny is certain that isn’t the only contributing factor to the way time is seeming to stretch out in this moment; being trapped with nothing but the company of Morrissey’s silence can cause anything to feel about ten times longer than it really is. 

As the box continues it’s earthward route, Johnny steals a peak at his companion from the corner of his eye. Glowering at the elevator door, Moz stands defiantly, arms crossed in annoyance over his skinny chest and his usually quiffed hair rumpled precariously above matted lashes.

Moz has been in a mood from the moment he woke up. When Johnny awoke that morning and turned to look at the twin bed across from him, he had known instantly upon seeing Morrissey’s face that he’d be in for a day of the singer’s snarky comments, stormy glares, and general tight-assedness. 

Johnny isn’t sure what set off his friend this time, though. Usually there’s some sort of cause for his gloominess, such as society’s heteronormativity being obnoxious, or the meat industry being awful, or Margaret Thatcher being…well, Margaret Thatcher. Johnny thinks for a moment that perhaps Moz is just tired. Their show did run really quite late the night before, and he knows that Morrissey hasn’t exactly been getting an ideal amount of rest as of late. Still, though… they’ve had strenuous nights before, and Moz rarely shows any ill effects. In fact, he lives for performing. After intense concerts, he often has a vivacity that glows about him for days—a radiance which doesn’t go unnoticed by Johnny—so it seems unlikely that that would be the basis for his sour disposition. Whatever the real reason is, Morrissey has been ignoring all of his bandmate’s attempts at conversation for the last half hour or so—and there doesn’t appear to be any sign of him letting up soon. 

Johnny looks to the floor gauge in desperation as the elevator continues its painfully slow descent.

There’s a sudden, loud clicking from above, and Johnny senses the man beside him flinch at the unexpected noise. Morrissey sighs dismally, and Johnny covertly looks over at him, examining his face. Moz has dark circles under his eyes, looks like he hasn’t shaved in a day or two, and his cheeks, more sallow than normal, appear wan and washed-out in the harsh elevator lighting. 

Johnny feels a sudden sensation of pity wash over him. When was the last time Moz had eaten? After basically starving themselves all day in tech rehearsals the day before, Johnny had gone out for a bite with Mike and Andy, but Moz had refused to come, opting instead to continue writing a letter to his friend Linder. Seeing the state the man is in, Johnny wonders to himself why he didn’t bring him back something to eat, and is ashamed to admit that it was a little bit out of resentment. He knows it’s irrational for him to be so possessive of the older boy’s attention, and even more so for him to take that out by subconsciously neglecting his friend’s health, but with all the tenderness Morrissey showers Linder with, it’s not exactly absurd for Johnny to be somewhat envious of the affection. 

Distraught and slightly ashamed, Johnny reaches a hand across the small space as the lights flicker above them, and touches Morrissey’s shoulder softly. The older man flinches away from his grasp, and casts his friend a dirty look.

“Come on, Moz, stop being such a—“

A high pitched screeching sounds from above, and Johnny falls onto his side as the elevator comes to a grinding halt. A solid thump and pained groan somewhere near Johnny’s head indicates that he’s not the only one thrown off balance by the abrupt stop. Johnny turns to glower at Morrissey, but before he can even give him a proper scowl, the light flickers again, and dread passes over his pale features. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—“

The bulb goes out completely, leaving them both completely washed in darkness.

“You alright, Moz?” There’s a breathy noise from next to him. Johnny becomes concerned. What if he hit his head on the way down? Oh, Jesus, if Morrissey gets a concussion at a time like this….

“Eh, Mozzer? You think you could answer me, mate?” Johnny crawls across the floor, hands groping the linoleum surface for several moments before finally making contact with a hard, bony knee. Sitting up, Johnny’s hands flutter in the space over Morrissey blindly, unsure of what to do. In the end, he places them steadily on the sides of Morrissey’s shoulders.

“Johnny…” Morrissey croaks, his voice catching halfway through. 

“Hey, yeah, I’m right here. The hell’s wrong with your voice? Sounds strange.” 

Upon hearing these words, Morrissey makes a painful groaning sound, and attempts to move away, shoving Johnny weakly in the process.

“Aw, no, Mozzer, I don’t mean that. I’m sorry—I’m a total dick, you’re voice just sounded a little hoarse. Are you sick or something?” 

There’s no response from the other man, and Johnny realizes a moment later that talking probably isn’t good for Moz’s throat. Feeling the space in front of him blindly again until he finds his friend, Johnny moves himself to the side, keeping his hands on Morrissey’s chest to avoid another evasion.  
“Um, here, you can just, like, nod or shake your head.” Johnny says awkwardly, moving a hand up to Moz’s face. Despite a strained, breathy laugh, the boy’s head moves in affirmation. 

“Uh, your throat hurts, right?” Johnny asks. Morrissey nods.

“Hmm. It’s probably that cold Mikey had a few weeks ago. Have you been feeling bad for a while?” Another nod. “Aw, Moz…why’d you sing last night? That can’t have made anything better.”

There’s a pause.

“That’s not a yes or no question, Johnny,” Morrissey accuses hoarsely. 

“Oh, right, I—“

Morrissey starts to speak, his voice throaty and dry. “Look, it was an important show, one of our biggest yet. I didn’t want to let you, or the others, or the fans down, and I honestly wasn’t feeling too bad—“ A harrowing cough racks his body, and he quiets for a moment to settle his chest before beginning again. “I was fine before the show, and I woke up this morning miserable, couldn’t even talk, and—“

“Moz!” Johnny interrupts. “You’ve got to stop overexerting your body like that, you’re going to hurt yourself.” He moves himself closer, and uses the palm that isn’t on Morrissey’s face to hold the singer’s hand within his own. Morrissey lets out a sharp chuckle. 

“Oh, don’t you worry, John Maher. There are plenty of singers out there who can do exactly what I do. I’m quite replaceable. Whatever talent I possess truly isn’t nearly as impressive as you’re always making it out to be, I’m sure if you went around town you’d find that to be true. ”

Morrissey’s self-deprecation always flabbergasts Johnny. 

“No!” he exclaims. “Okay, Mozzer, first of all, your voice is incredible—we definitely wouldn’t be finding you a stand-in in fuckin’ Suffolk. Secondly—cut it out, laughing’s going to hurt your throat—you know I don’t just mean you’re important for the band, right? Every one of us needs you. I need you.”

As he says this, Johnny realizes how close they’ve become. He can feel Moz’s warm breath on his hair, and goosebumps have begun to rise on his arms and the back of his neck. Morrissey speaks, an uncertain tone in his voice.

“You need me?” 

“Of course, Moz…I need you more than anyone in this whole world.”

Their faces have become so close that their noses are nearly touching, and Johnny’s stomach begins to stir with warmth. For some unknown reason, he tilts his face closer, and brushes the soft skin of Morrissey’s cheek with chapped lips. He lingers there for several seconds, lost in the moment, until, suddenly, the man beneath him shudders violently, breaking him out of his reverie. Johnny jolts, and tears his hands away from Morrissey. What the hell is he doing?

“Oh, Moz, I’m so sorry, God, I shouldn’t have— I don’t know why I—oh, fuck—“

Without warning, a pair of large hands slip around Johnny’s face, and warm lips press firmly softly against his. As surprise melts into eagerness, their kiss deepens, and Johnny enters a sort of daze—one which is quickly broken when Morrissey’s tongue gently slides along his lower lip, taking the guitarist by surprise. Johnny lets out an involuntary moan. He pushes his hand behind Morrissey’s head, grabbing a tuft of hair in one fist while the other travels to Moz’s waist, pulling him in even closer. 

Just as things are beginning to heat up, a loud noise sounds from above, and the light flickers back on, temporarily blinding both men.

When Johnny’s vision gets back into focus, his gaze locks with Morrissey’s, then travels lower to his wet, pink lips, and the rosy flush that is quickly spreading from his cheeks down his neck. Embarrassed, the singer raises himself to his full height, and holds out a hand for his friend awkwardly. 

“Um…well then. We should probably, you know… I mean, the elevator’s moving and all.” Morrissey rambles hoarsely. Johnny laughs, and accepts the help up. 

Sure enough, the elevator has begun to move again, and they’re just before the first floor when Moz turns to Johnny quickly.

“Johnny! Do we look like we’ve just been making out in the lift?” Johnny shrugs nonchalantly. 

“I mean, we have just been making out in the lift, mate.” Morrissey rolls his eyes. 

“You know what I mean.” Johnny looks Morrissey over, and shakes his head.

“Nah, you look normal. What about me?”

Morrissey scans him, tapping his finger against his chin in concentration. 

“Hmm…no, I’m afraid you look quite adorable.”

The doors open up finally, revealing the small lobby where Mike and Andy sit. When they see them, they quickly get out of their seats and grab their bags.

“It’s about time you two! What the hell took you so long?” Andy looks them up and down distastefully. “God knows it wasn’t time spent on your appearances.”

“The elevator got stuck! Not much me or Mozzer here could do about that, is there?” Johnny retorts.

Andy frowns. “Hm. No, I suppose there isn’t. Well, in any case, Mikey and I have been waiting for a while down here, and we’re running late, so we’d better get headed out.” 

Johnny agrees, and with that, the four of them gather their luggage and begin making their way into the parking lot. They’re nearly to their van when suddenly, Johnny stops in his tracks.

“What is it now?!” Mike sighs. Morrissey looks him over with concern.

A deeply unsettled expression comes over Johnny’s face. 

And then, a moment later—

“At-CHOO!”

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed it and thank u for reading! all comments are very much appreciated <3 (also i wrote this vry quickly so I'm sorry for any spelling errors ]^: )


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